


Nocturne in B♭ Minor

by pocketsfullofmice



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dubious consent and dubious meals, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Rimming, hannibal has an oral fixation, he also has a thing for rubbing up against hannibal, that is, there is rimming, will is mega angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5166554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsfullofmice/pseuds/pocketsfullofmice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He says, 'I hate you.'</i><br/><i>And he replies, 'no, you don't.'</i><br/> </p><p>A melancholy fills the space between Will and Hannibal in the days after the fall. It's filled with pain and distance and whisky, aged sixteen years. And then it's filled with more. And all Will can do is roll his eyes and jibe that of <i>course</i> Hannibal has a cabin up here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturne in B♭ Minor

**Author's Note:**

> This sort of came splurting out of me and I hurriedly wrote it down. Apologies for any blazing errors.

They set up home in a cabin several hours north of the cliffside home, and Will rolls his eyes despite the pain, because of _course_ Hannibal has more than one. The boat drags through the water like molasses as they edge closer. They leave it in the bay and carry one another through the woods to what will be their home for the foreseeable future. It's not as well-established as the cliffside home; Abigail had preferred the rustic nature of it, feeling it was closer to nature. The TV signal is weak, the phone line flicks in and out, an Internet connection nonexistent. The canned goods are dusty, the gas in the canisters running low. It's perfect for Will.

It's registered under a woman's name- the name he would have given Abigail when they traveled. Hannibal's not concerned about being found out, and Will doesn't appear to be in any state of concern for where they are, so long as it's away. They share a bed out of convenience, though Will runs hot and Hannibal often finds himself dozing on the couch as the sheets grow damp with Will's fever dreams. The couch plays hell with his shoulder, but Will kicks and punches in his sleep when he's not burning up like an oven.

The first week is spent in near silence, tending to their wounds in a companionable, albeit pained, quiet reverence. The wound marring Will's face grows infected, and Hannibal rips a sheet from the forged prescription pad and scrawls a request for cefalexin. He wraps it in a plastic display sheet and tapes it to the front of the door, along with a list of necessities they require. By the following morning it's gone, and in the evening, after they've napped, Hannibal finds a box of medication in its place. It's placed on top of a carton of food and clothes.

Words begin to fill the silence over the next few weeks. It hurts for Will to talk, and Hannibal takes to whispering questions and directives as he tends to their needs. It feels wrong to break the silence now. The seasons have begun to change, and so have they. He doesn't want to shatter the chrysalis that surrounds them with unnecessary noise. Will never quite meets his eye, instead looking several inches to the right, just beyond him, or other times refusing to raise his head at all, flinching as the soft hands change his dressing and, eventually, snip out the stitches. Hannibal's own wound has grown stiff and tight as it heals, even as he carefully stretches out the muscle and rubs the scar tissue.

Food arrives at the start of each week. At first it's only basics. Bread, milk, olive oil, tomatoes, canned goods that Hannibal screws his nose up at but Will eats cold. Then, later, pasta and rice, balsamic vinegar and colorful bell peppers. Hannibal asks Will if he wants anything and Will dryly replies with whisky, aged sixteen years. Hannibal takes him for his word and writes it on the list. It arrives Monday the following week, between an akebi and a bunch of komatsuna. Hannibal leaves the bottle on the counter. It remains untouched for several days until he returns from a walk one afternoon to find several fingers worth gone.

Will mumbles to him over dinner than night, that faintest whiff of alcohol on his breath. He asks him about his walk that afternoon. He asks if they can get some carrots. He asks if they can get some books beyond Hannibal's 'weird philosophical shit'. He doesn't ask about Abigail or where they are or how Hannibal's gunshot wound is healing up.

*

Will drinks. He doesn't drink a lot or with any regularity, and the bottle never moves from the counter beyond an inch or two, but the amber liquid inside slowly decreases. Hannibal writes for another bottle on the list he leaves by the door each Sunday night before Will asks. He only drinks when Hannibal is out, and he often returns to find Will smelling of alcohol and soap and, occasionally, the heady stink of sex. He doesn't question Will's habits.

Will's own patrol of the surrounding woods is erratic and seem to come and go with the weather. He often leaves after a heavy spring shower, the smell of petrichor strong in the air. Hannibal considers following him once, but decides not to. Will doesn't talk any more or less when he returns, but he sleeps easier and Hannibal isn't chased out from under the covers.

One afternoon, Will returns with a fish. It's been six and a half weeks since they fell. For the first time since they hit the crashing waves, he meets Hannibal's eye as he drops the trout on the kitchen counter and proceeds to gut it. He makes short work of it, pulling the organs from out and slicing off its head. His hands make quick work, and he recognises the quick slices from the way he attacked that shy boy. 

Their dinner that night is a strange combination of ingredients. Fish and carrots that Will has become obsessed with asking for each week, black rice and microwaved potatoes. Hannibal eats, appreciating the lack of pretense and equally frustrated by it, and thanks him. It's the most effort Will has put forward in all their time together. Will huffs.

He drinks that night for the first time in front of Hannibal. He retreats to the bathroom, and the shower runs. He emerges some thirteen minutes later, hair curled from steam and the back of his shirt wet. He never asks where the clothes came from. 

Hannibal sets down the book he's been reading as Will crosses to him and kisses him, alcohol and soap and sex embedded in his pores.

'I hate you,' he says before he retreats to the bedroom. 

It's only seven pm. Hannibal can't blame him.

*

Over time they establish a rhythm. Hannibal spends the mornings out in the woods, Will the afternoon. Occasionally Will brings home something for them to eat- a fish or a rabbit typically. Once a fawn with budding antlers that he refuses to say how he got. His beard grows back, patchy around the thick scar tissue that has formed. The scar slashes through his face, as ugly as air bubbles in a painting. Occasionally an ingrown hair forms, and Hannibal carefully tugs it out with a pair of tweezers, watching the thick hair unfurl. 

Some nights he goes straight to bed after his shower. Some nights he sits with Hannibal and reads, or flicks through the snowballed TV stations until he finds reruns of Friends or Mad About You or Star Trek. One night he watches a three-hour marathon of Doctor Who before admitting he knows nothing about the show. Twice he hisses he hates Hannibal and wants nothing to do with him as he kisses him and bites on his lower lip and hits his unharmed shoulder with a balled fist.

Hannibal wakes one morning to find Chiyoh sipping coffee with Will at the heavy wooden table in the middle of the main room. Passports sit between them. The both look at him evenly. Hannibal understands what this meeting means, in the thick, engulfing silence. It's time for them to move on. They spend the day packing and cleaning, grateful for the time they have. Hannibal makes meals for them for the rest of the week. Will packs their clothes and the whisky.

That night Will crawls onto his lap and grinds down. He spits at him how he never wanted this, that this is Hannibal's doing. Whisky stains his breath and anger poisons his words. Hannibal squeezes his ass in return, holding him in place and swallowing it all, letting the blood from his bitten lips pool on his tongue until Will tires himself out and pulls free. Hannibal sleeps that night on the couch, not even bothering to slip into bed, and ruts against the back of the couch, much the way he had while in prison and his most primal, animalistic urges couldn't be suppressed. 

They drive to the bay the following morning and leave the keys behind the driver's side front wheel. The boat is waiting where they left it. Will takes them out, silent as the night. Hannibal stands behind him, watching as the shore gets swallowed up in the horizon.

The following two days is a repeat of the first two weeks in the cabin. That is until Hannibal awakens to find Will's mouth hot and wet and sucking at the mass of scar tissue on his chest. He rolls them over, pinning Will down and finds his mouth in the dark. The boat rocks them, hands scrambling together as Will hitches them above his head so he's stretched beneath Hannibal, muttering about how he never wanted this, how Hannibal had ruined him. He tells him he hates him.

'No, you don't,' Hannibal chides as Will's knees push into his ass and encourages him to grind against his erection. 

Will doesn't argue.

Later, he slips from the bed and clambers from the compartment. Hannibal gives him several minutes to return before he climbs from the bed and pushes open the door an inch. He's sitting next to the railing, a leg dangling over the edge. He can only begin to imagine what he's thinking, filling in the blanks where they exist. He closes the door and returns to the bed. Much later, before the sun begins to rise, Will joins him, tossing an arm over his middle. The only acknowledgment Hannibal gives it as a quick brush of his fingers before Will pulls it away again.

*

The second time they kill together is in Homestead, Florida. The why isn't important. The how is. The aftermath is vital. That bloodlust look in Will's eye again, sweat clinging to his upper lip and blood on his hands. He bares his teeth at Hannibal and charges at him, slamming his fists against his chest, shoving and pushing him until he's stumbling over the body and pressed against a wall and Will's kissing him, licking open his mouth and pulling at his sticky, bloodied clothes. He's as savage and brutal at this as he is in the middle of a kill. Hannibal tugs at the long curls, Will's beard scratching at his jaw and chin, and allows himself to moan at each touch. He wants this and Will wants this, but not here, not now. 

They clean each other off in the shower on the boat, scrubbing each other until the water runs clear. Hannibal kisses him all over, kneeling before him as the water pounds down over them. Will jerks his cock, twisting his wrist as his head presses into the tiles and he rocks onto his toes. He's ticklish behind his knees and he laughs for the first time since they fell, a rasping sound as though he's forgotten how. Hannibal smiles, uncertain at first until he watches Will spill over, the head of his cock swollen and purple between his forefinger and thumb, come streaking his hand.

'I hate you,' he breathes, a distinct lack of malice in his voice. 

Hannibal kisses his hip.

Will's too sober to deal with Hannibal's own arousal, the aftermath, the weight of what this means. He cooks the meat and elbows Hannibal in the stomach when he tries to help. The meat is burnt and Will finally asks for help.

*

Hannibal owns a holiday home in Cuba because of _course_ he does. Will rolls his eyes as he says as much, but he immediately finds the most comfortable chaise lounge and falls down on it. He stinks of sea spray and fish and the awkward non-sex the two of them having been having. Hannibal eyes him but doesn't ask him to move. He does, however, find the air freshener in the kitchen and sprays it beside Will until he retreats to the bathroom. 

Will shaves, announces it hurt too much and won't be doing it again. Hannibal eyes the mangled scar and says it's probably for the best. A man with a beard isn't uncommon in Europe. Will says as long as it's not England, he's fine with that.

In these parts he's known as Ubel Baum. He calls Will Milo. They fall back into their old pattern, where Hannibal-cum-Ubel spends the morning out and Will-cum-Milo explores during the afternoon. They take turns cooking, and Will starts to bring back interesting things he's found on his walks. Leaves and feathers, beads and shells. He lines the bookshelves with them and spends a few minutes of each evening looking at them as he nurses his glass of whisky. It's very similar to what Abigail used to do, and Hannibal imagines he's conversing with her in his mind, telling her how his life has changed. He doesn't expect Molly enters his mind palace at all these days.

They plan their next stop: Greece.

They plan their next kill: Mariel.

They plan their next meal: beef bourguignon. 

Will drinks, but not as heavily as he had in the previous months. He follows Hannibal into the bedroom one afternoon and pins him against the wardrobe. The taste of whisky is faint and almost nonexistent. Their hands pull and pluck at one another, unbuttoning shirts and unzipping flies, needy and grabby. The hot, summer winds have started and Will sweats, though without the sharp, feverish intensity that he had in the early days. Hannibal's tongue runs over his chest and stomach as he pushes him against the bed.

Will's still shy about touching Hannibal. It doesn't matter that they've been naked before in the shower, that he's sat on Hannibal's lap and rubbed himself against him until he's spilled over in his pants, that Hannibal's picked him up and held him against a wall and thrust his cock between his soft thighs. Hannibal doesn't mind taking it upon himself to slick his fingers up as Will leaves red suction bruises on his chest and clavicles, sliding his fingers into himself and opening himself up. It's all the better, though, when Will takes hold of his wrist and sets the rhythm, until he's fucking himself with his own hand and his shoulder burns and he rasps that he needs to stop.

He's always been a lover of pleasure, in all its forms. He's selfish and _haute boheme_ in some ways and won't deny himself all he desires. He wants that sweet, filling, dull ache that he can't get on his own. And Will shivers and makes a choked, gurgling noise from the back of his throat and jerks up, sliding home quicker than Hannibal expects, causing him to teeter forward, pinning Will to the bed and burrowing his face in the crook of his neck.

Hannibal can't fathom him and Molly having any kind of regular sex life. Long periods of celibacy broken by weeks of insatiable lust- he can see that happening with them, with Will's cold moods and predilection towards withdrawing. Hannibal doesn't mind. He'd rather wait for Will's insatiable lust to build up until he's being woken up in the middle of the night with Will rubbing against him, or coming home and finding himself being wrestled to the floor, or Will finally giving in and tasting him, swallowing him down with a hungry mouth and taking all he has to offer. He wants that far more than the drudgery of typical relationships.

Will drags his nails down Hannibal's back, breaking the skin. His other hand slips between his cheeks, finding the slick, stretched skin and teasing the spot where they join, connect. It's the closest Will ever truly gets to touching Hannibal, but this is so intimate that he can't help but shiver and moan and press back.

After, when sweat clings to them and the stink of sex fills the room and the hot breeze wafting in through the window does nothing to cool them, Will wonders allowed whether he should get up and clean the blood from the bathroom. He asks Hannibal for his input.

'No, you don't,' he replies and tugs him over again.

Will goes freely into his arms.

*

Their days in Greece are lazy. They stay in their boat for most of it, occasionally moving onto land for a few nights in a hotel. Will's disinclined to go out much, the language too confusing for him, the people too friendly. He finds a dog who lives by the beach and spends most of his time outside with it. When he finds a missing poster with the dogs face, he brings it back to Hannibal and asks him to decipher it. Hannibal suggests he keeps the dog- a peace offering. Will obviously considers it for a few seconds before deciding no. Hannibal is surprised to find he wishes the dog was being abused and it would be an excuse for a kill, for Will's face to light up with a delighted glee he held only for his pets. But the dog, it turns out, is well loved and well missed and the woman it belongs to weeps when the funny American approaches with it and stumbles over mutilated Greek.

Will drips with sweat and he soaks through shirts and briefs. He hides out in museums and cafes, spending more and more time indoors as summer hits. His siestas are four hours long. While Hannibal tans, Will grows pale. He emerges only at night, when it's still hot but without the intensity of the sun. He grows silent once more, but it's not worrisome the way it was in the early days after the fall. He's too tired to talk, the sun sapping him of his strength. Hannibal assures him he will be fine in winter, but that's months away.

Although he wouldn't say he enjoys the lack of energy Will has, he does delight in it in other ways. Will's argumentative, but there's no fire behind his words. He doesn't have the energy for it. Hannibal dotes on him. He trims his hair, feeds him luxurious meals, rubs nutty-smelling oils into his skin. He shows him how far his oral fixation extends and presses him onto his stomach and opens him up with his tongue, causing Will's cheeks to burn with humiliation and desire, unable to handle it. It's what he begs for later, and Hannibal is more than happy to fill his request, until his jaw aches and Will is so pliant and wet that he can take him for the first time, bent over a desk in the hotel they're staying in because it the air conditioning is as freezing as West Virginian winters. Will comes over the room service menu and Hannibal spills inside of him, clutching him close.

*

Greece pushes Will from its borders. He's cold blooded by nature, and the constant heat makes him miserable. They travel across to Italy and then north. Through Bern and Nancy and Luxembourg, through to Belgium. Secretly Hannibal is glad. He loves the lush, old architecture, the history that lines the streets in a vastly different way to Greece.

They set up home in Brussels, renting an apartment with funds from one of Hannibal's untouched accounts. Will rolls his eyes as always, because of _course_ Hannibal has multiple foreign accounts. They spend their shared evenings together walking the cobblestone paths and learning the alleys and underpasses. He teaches Will Flemish until he's passable and French until he can at least be left on his own. Will picks up the history of the area faster, the geography until he rivals Hannibal's own knowledge and soaks in the culture until he can blend into social gatherings. He gives off an aloof air that suits him. 

He explores the city during the morning. He grows his hair long enough to tie back, forgoes suits for lush sweaters and linen slacks. He indulges his tastebuds as he always does, but begins to cook elaborate stews and intricate roasts and complex curries. Homecooked meals with his usual, grand flare. Will comes along when he sources his meat, and he even begins to pick out their target. He knows which cuts to go for, occasionally places a request. He has a hunter's eye.

In the afternoon it's Will's turn to explore the city. Hannibal doesn't follow- Will always returns, silent or drunk or touch-starved. It's never all three, not anymore. The sheets no longer get soaked in sweat unless the room is filled with the smell of sex and the house echoes with choked curses. 

Will buys a freezer and keeps it in the larder. They fill it together. 

Hannibal asks him one night, over suckling pig and stewed carrots, 'don't you hate me?'

And Will acknowledges his whisky and hums and finally says, 'no, I don't.'


End file.
